Page 42 of Cruz

Huge. Beautiful. In a black t-shirt with the club’s logo on the front, faded jeans, and those heavy boots he wears everywhere. His lips wobble when he sees me, like he’s trying not to break into a goofy grin. He loses, smiling so wide that his dimple pops.

My heart flutters and goes straight into palpitations. I go from I can play this cool to holy fuck, my pulse is going to redline in two seconds flat.

How is it possible that Cruz is even hotter than I remember? Taller, broader, the planes of his face harder, his lips fuller, his eyes that intriguing but alluring light gray.

Stop, stop, stop.

“Hey.” My voice is all wonky. It’s not a wonder, given how dry my throat is. I stand back and pretend to be casual while Cruz enters and shuts the door. “Where’s your jacket?”

“In the truck. The heater’s been acting up. It was pumping so hot that I didn’t need it.”

“You didn’t ride?”

A look flashes over his face, and I worry I’ve said the wrong thing.

“My knee still isn’t great. Don’t want it to lock on the highway, so I’m in a cage,” he answers.

“Are you going to get it looked at?” I break off, fully aware that I went into full on mom mode there. He’s a grown-ass man, he’s been in the military. The fact he’s clearly trying to rest his knee, shows he’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

He doesn’t seem annoyed by my concern. If anything, his eyes shine a little bit brighter.

“I haven’t made dinner yet. I—uh, haven’t started it I mean. What did you want?” It shouldn’t feel so strange to ask the question. Or to have Cruz standing in the very place where he spent so much time. This is somehow more intimate. I can’t think of a different word, even though I know that’s not right. My brain is too scrambled by the rich leather, gas, cologne, and fresh shower scents of Cruz to function properly.

“PB and J.”

“What?”

With his signature calm, Cruz expands it for me. “Peanut butter and jelly.”

“You want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner?”

“I’d like multiples. Maybe three.”

“I haven’t had a sandwich for dinner in a very long time.”

He wanders over to the table, pulls out a chair, and sits down. I don’t miss the way the narrowing of his eyes, or the tight tug at the corners of his mouth. He’s in pain.

It’s all I can do not to offer him the bottle of ibuprofen and whatever bag of frozen veggies I can find first. I’d like to lean over him, set my hands on his shoulders, and massage the tension out of him until he groans with satisfaction and tips his face up to mine to kiss me.

I shake off the images and ignore the wild heat that blazes through me. I have two different kinds of jelly in the fridge—grape and apricot—a fresh loaf of sourdough bread on the counter, and half a jar of crunchy peanut butter left.

Cruz turns in the chair so he can watch me. He’s probably going to call me out on the way that I make PB and J. I’m not a monster, I swear, but peanut butter and jelly belong on both sides of the bread. When they mush together, you get a perfect distribution.

I go classic and make two with grape jelly, and one with apricot to mix things up a bit. I set the stack in front of Cruz before I make my own.

“Eat,” I encourage him. “You don’t have to worry about being polite and waiting for me. I’m going to make tea, so I’ll be a minute. Do you want some?”

“Sure.”

He doesn’t ask what kind. I don’t know if that’s because he doesn’t care and he’s not fussy, or because he’s having one of his quiet nights. Maybe both.

I’m satisfied when he follows my instructions and tucks into the sandwiches. He devours them, cleaning his plate. It makes my chest ache to think that he was starved because no one is taking care of him. When he was with me, I made sure he had a good breakfast and dinner, and got coffee and snacks throughout the day. Was he too busy to eat today? Did he forget? I want to urge him to take better care of himself, but maybe he did and he’s famished anyway. It’s not any of my business.

I make orange pekoe tea with cream and choose grape jelly for myself. Liam’s favorite is the grape, so I always have a jar on hand.

I sit down across from Cruz after setting his mug in front of him. Steam curls off both. I have my head bowed while I nibble my sandwich, but I can feel the heat of his gaze on me.

“Did you see the cat I sent you?”